The Serpent Prince

He stilled and stared at her as if dumbstruck.



“Don’t you understand?” Lucy whispered. “Even if one were made blind again in the next instant, one would ever after remember and know what was missed. What could be.”



“So you won’t marry me,” he said quietly.



“No.” Lucy let her hands drop, deflated and weary. “I won’t marry you.”



“DAMMIT!” EDWARD DE RAAF, the fifth Earl of Swar-tingham, roared as yet another boy whizzed past. The boy somehow managed to avoid seeing de Raaf’s large, waving arm.



Simon stifled a sigh. He sat in his favorite London coffeehouse, his feet—shod in new red-heeled pumps—propped on a nearby chair, and yet he could not drag his mind away from the little town he’d left over a week ago.



“D’you think the service is getting worse?” his companion asked as he was passed over again. The boy must be blind. Or willfully not seeing. De Raaf stood a solid six feet and some inches, had a sallow, pockmarked face, and striking midnight black hair worn in a messy queue. His expression at the moment was enough to curdle cream. He didn’t exactly blend into a crowd.



“No.” Simon sipped his own coffee thoughtfully. He’d arrived earlier than the other man and was thus already set up. “It’s always been this awful.”



“Then why do we come here?”



“Well, I come here for the excellent coffee.” Simon glanced around the dingy, low-ceilinged coffeehouse. The Agrarian Society, an eclectic, loose-knit club, met here. The only terms of membership were that the man had to have an interest in agriculture. “And, of course, the sophisticated atmosphere.”



De Raaf shot him a ludicrously outraged look.



A fight broke out in the corner between a macaroni in a deplorable pink-powdered, three-tailed wig, and a country squire wearing muddy jackboots. The boy scurried past them again—de Raaf didn’t even get a chance to raise his hand this time—and Harry Pye stole into the coffeehouse. Pye moved like a cat on the hunt, gracefully and without any sound. Add to that his nondescript appearance—he was of average height and looks and favored a dull brown wardrobe—and it was a wonder anyone noticed him at all. Simon narrowed his eyes. With his physical control, Pye would have made a formidable swordsman. But since he was a commoner, no doubt he had never held a sword; only nobility could wear one. Which didn’t stop Pye from carrying a wicked little blade in his left boot.



“My lords.” Pye sat in the remaining chair at their table.



De Raaf let out a long-suffering sigh. “How many times have I told you to call me Edward or de Raaf?”



Pye half smiled in acknowledgment at the familiar words, but it was to Simon he spoke. “I am glad to see you well, my lord. We had news of your near murder.”



Simon shrugged easily. “A trifle, I assure you.”



De Raaf frowned. “That’s not what I heard.”



The boy slammed a full mug of coffee down beside Pye.



De Raaf’s jaw dropped. “How did you do that?”



“What?” Pye’s gaze lowered to the empty space on the table before the earl. “Aren’t you having a cup today?”



“I—”



“He’s decided to give up coffee,” Simon cut in smoothly. “Heard it’s not good for the libido. Huntington wrote a treatise on it recently, didn’t you hear? It especially affects those nearing their middle years.”



“Really.” Pye blinked.



De Raaf’s pale, pockmarked face crimsoned. “What a lot of rot—”



“Can’t say I’ve noticed it affecting me.” Simon smiled blandly and sipped his coffee. “But then again, de Raaf is considerably older than I.”



“You lying—”



“And he’s recently married. Bound to have a slowing-down consequence, that.”



“Now see here—”



Pye’s lips twitched. If Simon hadn’t been watching closely, he’d have missed it. “But I’m newly married as well,” Pye interrupted softly. “And I can’t say I’ve noticed any, ah, problem. Must be the age.”



Simon felt a strange pang as he realized he was the odd man out. They turned in unison to the earl.



Who sputtered, “Despicable, lying, caddish—”



The boy whirled by again. De Raaf frantically waved his arm. “Ahhh, damn!”



The lad disappeared into the kitchen without ever turning his head.



“Good thing you’ve given up the sacred brew.” Simon smirked.



A crash came from the brawl in the corner. Heads swiveled. The country squire had the dandy, sans wig, on his back against a table. Two chairs lay broken nearby.



Pye frowned. “Isn’t that Arlington?”



“Yes,” Simon replied. “Hard to recognize him without that atrocious wig, isn’t it? Can’t think why he chose pink. No doubt that’s the reason the rural chap is pummeling him. Probably overcome with loathing for the wig.”



“They were arguing over swine breeding.” De Raaf shook his head. “He’s always been a bit unreasonable about farrowing pens. Runs in the family.”



“Do you think we should help him?” Pye asked.



“No.” De Raaf looked around for the boy, an evil gleam in his eye. “Arlington could benefit from a beating. Might knock some sense into him.”



“Doubt it.” Simon raised his mug again, but then lowered it as he saw a slight, scruffy character hesitating in the doorway.



The man scanned the room and spotted him. He started toward them.



“Dammit!” de Raaf exclaimed beside him. “They’re ignoring me on purpose.”



“Do you want me to get you a coffee?” Pye asked.



“No. I’m going to do it myself or die trying.”



The man stopped before Simon. “Took me most of the day, Guv, but I’ve found him.” He proffered a dirty scrap of paper.



“Thanks.” Simon gave the man a gold coin.



“Ta.” The little man tugged a forelock and disappeared.



Simon opened the paper and read: The Devil’s Playground after eleven. He crumpled the note and stuffed it in a pocket. And only then realized the other two men were watching him. He raised his brows.



“What’s that?” De Raaf rumbled. “Found another one to duel?”



Simon blinked, taken aback. He thought he had kept his dueling secret from de Raaf and Pye. He’d not wanted their interference or their moralizing.



“Surprised we know?” De Raaf leaned back, endangering the wooden chair he sat in. “It wasn’t that hard to ferret out how you’ve been spending the last couple of months, especially after that sword fight with Hartwell.”



What was the big man’s point? “Not your business.”



“It is when you’re risking your life with each duel,” Pye answered for them both.



Simon stared hard.



Neither man blinked.



Damn them. He looked away. “They killed Ethan.”



“John Peller killed your brother.” De Raaf tapped a big finger on the table in emphasis. “And he’s already dead. You ran him through more than two years ago. Why start again now?”



“Peller was part of a conspiracy.” Simon looked away. “A bloody conspiracy from hell. I only found out several months ago, whilst going through some of Ethan’s papers.”



De Raaf sat back and folded his arms.



“I discovered that fact right before I challenged Hartwell.” Simon fingered his index finger. “There were four of them in the conspiracy. Two are left now, and they’re all culpable. What would you do if it were your brother?”



“Probably the same as you’re doing.”



“There you are.”



De Raaf grimaced. “The chances you’ll be killed increase with every duel you fight.”



“I’ve won both duels so far.” Simon looked away. “What makes you think I can’t win the next?”



“Even the best swordsman can slip or be distracted for a moment.” De Raaf looked irritable. “One moment, that’s all it takes. Those are your words.”



Simon shrugged.



Pye leaned forward, his voice lowering. “At least let us go with you, be your seconds.”



“No. I already have someone else in mind.”



“That lad you’ve been partnering with at Angelo’s?” de Raaf cut in.



Simon nodded. “Christian Fletcher.”



Pye’s gaze sharpened. “How well do you know him? Can you trust him?”



“Christian?” Simon laughed. “Young, I concede, but quite good with a blade. Almost as good as I, in fact. He’s beaten me in practice once or twice.”



“But would he guard your back in a crisis?” De Raaf shook his head. “Would he even know to look for tricks?”



“It won’t come to that.”



“Dammit—”



“Besides”—Simon looked from one to the other—“the both of you are in a state of connubial bliss. Think you that I would want to present either of your wives with a dead husband before your first anniversary?”



“Simon—” de Raaf began.



“No. Leave it at that.”



“Goddamn you.” The big man stood, his chair nearly toppling over. “You had better not be dead the next time I see you.” He banged his way out of the coffeehouse.



Simon frowned.



Pye silently emptied his cup. “Since you’ve reminded me of my lady, I’d best be leaving as well.” He rose. “If you have need of me, Lord Iddesleigh, you have only to send word.”



Simon nodded. “The kindness of friendship is all I ask.”



Pye touched him on the shoulder and then he, too, was gone.



Simon looked at his coffee. It was cold, with a ring of greasy scum floating on the surface, but he didn’t order a new cup. At eleven tonight he would track down another of his brother’s murderers and challenge him to a duel. Until then, he had nothing in particular to do. No one waited for his return. No one grew anxious as the time wore on. No one would mourn if he did not turn up.



Simon swallowed some of the filthy coffee and grimaced. Nothing was as pathetic as a man who lied to himself. It wasn’t that no one would mourn his death—Pye and de Raaf had just now indicated that they would do just that—but that no woman would mourn. No, he still lied. Lucy. Lucy wouldn’t mourn. He mouthed her name and tapped his fingers against the mug. When had he forfeited a normal life, one that included a wife and family? Was it after Ethan had died and he’d suddenly had the title and all the cares it represented thrust on him? Or later, when he’d killed the first one? John Peller. Simon shuddered. His dreams were still haunted by Peller’s fingers, falling disconnected to the dewy grass like gruesome flowers newly bloomed.



God.



And he could live with that, could live with the macabre nightmares. After all, the man had killed his only brother. He’d had to die. The dreams had even begun to abate. Until he’d found out there were more men to kill.



Simon raised the mug to his lips before remembering it was empty. Even after dueling Hartwell, it was Peller and his fingers he still dreamed about at night. Strange. It must be some quirk of the mind. Not a normal quirk, to be sure, because his mind was no longer normal. Some men might be able to kill without changing, but he wasn’t among their number. And that thought brought him around once again. He’d been right to leave Lucy behind. To decide not to cleave unto a wife, no matter the temptation to let go and live like an ordinary man. He couldn’t anymore.



He’d lost that choice when he’d set his course of revenge.



“I DON’T THINK THIS IDDESLEIGH gentleman can be a good acquaintance for you, Christian, viscount or no viscount.” Matilda looked pointedly at their only son as she passed him the bread.

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